Part 10 (1/2)

The food too takes its lead from the legacy of the Portugue who introduced, among other things, chilli, tomatoes and garli to the cuisine. They also ate pork, untouched by Muslims ar Hindus in the rest of India but popular with the primarily Roma Catholic population of Goa. All of these ingredients cc together in the signature dish of the region, pork vindaloo, whic takes its name from its two key ingredients, vinegar and garlic.

Few dishes are more misunderstood than the vindaloo. It 1 become synonymous with the Friday-night 'curry house' me sopping up the hinging of weekend warriors in s.h.i.+ny suits have spent the hours since they left work swilling cheap lag in the local pub. This beautiful dish has become debased. It become all about the heat and all about making the experien as close as possible to eating broken gla.s.s.

INDIA: MUMBAI.

A 'proper' vindaloo is certainly fiery, with the pork being marinated for a long time in chillies. But there is so much more to it than that. The best examples involve chunks of pork shoulder marinated overnight in a mix of palm vinegar, ground spices (including cloves, chillies and lots of garlic) and then slow-cooked without added water until the meat is tender and the sauce a thick gravy with immense depth and layers of flavour. When well done, as it was at my chosen beach shack, it is one of the best Indian dishes of all, and I sat with the sound of the waves lapping in front of me, spooning hunks of flesh into my mouth with a large paratha.

My time in Goa was exactly what I needed. Each day I would head out for a breakfast of fresh fruits and curds from the market stalls in Cavelossim before taking a long, luxurious, barefoot walk along the beach until I felt it was time to have something else to eat. As I walked, I would watch the local fishermen beach their small boats, haul out their catch of local fish and seafood and take them straight to the shacks to be prepared immediately for waiting diners. I can't recall too many times when I have had seafood this fresh, and for relatively little money my lunch each day consisted of large lobster simply grilled and doused with limes picked from the trees behind the shacks or stir-fried and served in a sauce made of coconut milk and fresh green chillies. The afternoon was spent by the pool sleeping or chatting to the other guests, mostly couples who had been returning to the same resort for years.

To my delight I was soon included in their group as we congregated by the bar every evening to drink rather too much of the locally made spirits with names like Blue s.h.i.+p Gin and Honeybee ”Whisky before having supper at a local restaurant, which made the best chicken tikka I have ever eaten in my life - alive with spices and sparkling with drops of lemon juice sprinkled on it just before serving.

Towards the end of my stay Serrafino, the owner of the hotel, invited me to join him at a meeting of local businessmen and guesthouse owners who had created a forum for responsible tourism. Although the area around Cavelossim seemed like a paradise, under the surface many problems were becoming increasingly apparent - particularly, he explained, with the influx of new tourists from Russia.

'They see Goa as a brothel', he explained, sharing with me the horrific figures for s.e.xual tourism, drug-related crime and s.e.xual abuse of children. And the all-inclusive resorts, he told me, were owned by major international companies, which meant that little of the money generated found its way into the local community.

At the end of the meeting an owner of one of the local guesthouses provided supper for us all in the shape of a seafood thali, served in the traditional manner, on banana leaves, with a mound of rice surrounded by ten or so small portions of different dishes, including fried clams, shark cooked with kok.u.m juice and squid cooked simply with spinach. It was a simple meal shared with local people, and the talking went on until nearly midnight as we ate under the stars in the garden of the local church where we had gathered. As we drove back with Serrafino, 1 told him I hoped that tourism would not ruin what I considered one of the most beautiful places I had visited.

'The trouble is,' he sighed, 'we want people to come and see how beautiful Goa is. We want them to meet our people, eat our food and, of course, spend money in our community. But the very action of them coming changes for ever what we want them to see.'

It is the great dichotomy of tourism, of course, but with people like Serrafino, perhaps Goa may be able to strike that balance. I hope so.

After a welcome few days of peace and quiet, I was ready to get back in harness again. I was excited and nervous in equal parts, 1 was truly heading back to the land of my fathers. Next stop Kolkata.

Kolkata: Land of My Fathers I always compare Kolkata to an ex-lover, one who you know is bad for you, but about whom you cannot stop thinking. They have let you down over and again, treated you badly, and you have promised yourself hundreds of times that you are not going to spend any more time in their company. But then, just as you thmk you are finally over them, they do something so utterly alluring, so impossibly irresistible, that you fmd yourself falling in love again. That is my Kolkata, the land of my fathers.

Kolkata is not easy-access India. It is not like Rajasthan - India 'with training wheels', as I call it. It is not as easy to navigate as Mumbai, and it does not have the beauty of the south, with beaches and palms; nor does it have the mountains ranges of the north. Everything about it is a challenge to what you think you know to be right and proper: the sheer volume of people, some 15 million and rising, all of whom seem to be on the streets all the time; the stultifying humidity, which even in spring can have you and your clothes dripping in sweat within thirty seconds; and the pollution, which can have you and your clothes turning a lovely shade of grey in the same amount of time.

It is impossible to understate the scale of the deprivation and degradation under which large sections of the population in Kolkata live, clinging by a thread to life by any means available, foraging through piles of festering garbage in search of sc.r.a.ps to eat, hustling for work on the streets, selling anything they have to offer (including themselves) and, of course begging, always persistently and often aggressively. It is little wonder that few foreigners, if any, mark the city as a tourist destination. Ye( Kolkata is also a magical place, a city fdled with unexpect beauty, immense intelligence and pa.s.sion, astonis.h.i.+ng sights J and some of the best food in India.

This is the Kolkata in which my father grew up and whe my mother spent the first year of her marriage learning how i cook. This is the Kolkata spoken of in the stories they regaled i with as children - stories of flying fighting kites from the roof c the family home, of playing cricket in the compound housing: the different branches of the family, of servants climbing trees) fetch the juiciest lemons to make cooling drinks and of Brahmid cooks producing meals of great simplicity but stunning flavou using few ingredients and even fewer spices. It is a city to whic I still have strong emotional ties because of this family histot and a city that never fails to astonish, whether it is your first vis or, as in my case, the latest of many.

I thought about all of this as my companion grabbed hold ^ my arm for support as we fought our way through downtov Kolkata, avoiding cracked paving stones, pools of stagnant wate mounds of festering rubbish and the inquisitive attentions everyone to my very white, very red-haired friend. Vanessa Sly eyes were popping out of her head, and she had a look on her fac that said 'What the f**k is a nice middle-cla.s.s girl like me froD Michigan doing here?' She looked like she wanted to be almc anywhere else in the world. Even Michigan.

Vanessa was responsible for the purchasing of tea at the famou Zingerman's deli in Ann Arbor. During my brief visit there had mentioned my upcoming trip to India and that it wouW include visits to Kolkata and a Darjeeling tea garden. Vaness asked whether I would mind having a companion. I was only toC pleased to agree, but I was sure that, as she began to see Kolkat in all its glory, she was regretting her decision.

'Loooook', she grabbed at my s.h.i.+rt sleeve and pointed. Ther was a woman was.h.i.+ng both her clothes and her small, naked child in the same puddle of dirty water.

'You are going to see a lot more of that, I am afraid', I said, concerned that she might find it all a bit hard to take in.

'No, that', she pointed again, this time more firmly.

Behind the woman on the pavement were two small monkeys who were going at it like, well, monkeys. I made a note to myself to remember the sight - not that the image of two monkeys s.h.a.gging on the streets of the downtown area of one of the largest cities in Asia is one you forget in a hurry.

Finally we found the address we were searching for and were ushered into the quiet, air-conditioned rooms of Ashok Gandotra, one of the most prominent tea traders in Kolkata. As we arrived, a range of teas was being allowed to brew in boiling water and then laid out in a line with spoons for us to taste. Ashok explained what was in front of us: first- and second-flush single-estate leaf teas from some of the finest gardens in Darjeeling through to leaf teas from other countries so we could make comparisons, followed by blended teas, using whole-leaf, broken-leaf, fanning (basically left-overs after sorting) and dust. Each blend, he explained, was designed for the taste of a different region or country: thick, strong teas for the Middle East, for example, and consistent but mediocre blends for the UK, where, he explained we drink a huge volume of tea, but not of great quality. He was most disparaging about the tea drunk in the USA, where my own unscientific research shows it would be easier find Lord Lucan than a decent cup of tea.

'They basically just want a neutral liquid they can drink cold with ice. It could be anything, it just has to be brown and wet', he said slurping from a bowl marked 'US Blend'.

This was Vanessa's show, and I stood back as the two experts tasted together, sucking up tablespoons full from each bowl and rolling them around their mouths to release the flavour before spitting out.

'It is not just the taste that makes a good tea', Ashok explained, holding up a bowl to the light. 'There is colour and brightness.' First-flush tea, harvested at the end of March, is a greener.

astringent tea with a pale colour. Generally considered to weaker than the second flush, picked in May, which has mc depth of both flavour and colour, first-flush has, however, oped a large following for its ability to refresh. By comparisoij the teas produced from broken leaves or fannings were duller i the eye and to the palate.

Once the tasting was over and we had left the office, wanted Vanessa to get her first real taste of Bengali foe Before Independence from Britain, Bengal was one of the lar est states in India. It still is, even though is now split into West Bengal, where Kolkata is found, and East Bengal, whic became East Pakistan and then the beautiful but blighted natic of Bangladesh. Bengal in general and Kolkata in particular known as the literary and political heart of India. Kolkata was t capital before Delhi, and in India there is a saying 'What Kolls thinks today, India will think tomorrow.'

It remains one of the safest places in India, and Bengalis among the friendliest people you will find in the world. The J too is unique. Unlike in much of India, where the food can 1 characterized by strong tastes and pungent spicing, Bengali 1 or more accurately Kolkatan food, is subtle and understated, usit few spices to complement their cooking of ingredients. Turme mustard oil and powder, ginger and fresh chillies are commor used alongside the bony river fish with which Kolkatans have ; obsession. It is from these roots that my own obsession come With respect, I never thought it came from Wales.

The people of Kolkata spend most of their waking lives talkir about food, from the simple breakfast of luchi, the local version < puri,=”” which=”” are=”” stuffed=”” with=”” potatoes=”” or=”” chickpeas=”” before=”” heir=”” dipped=”” in=”” sour=”” tamarind=”” water,=”” to=”” pre-lunch=”” snacks=”” of=”” s.h.i.+r=”” the=”” local=”” version=”” of=”” a=”” samosa,=”” stuffed=”” with=”” cauliflower,=”” to=”” lune=”” taken=”” on=”” the=”” hoof=”” or=”” in=”” a=”” restaurant,=”” to=”” supper=”” with=”” their=”” famil=”” to=”” a=”” late-night=”” snack=”” of=”” spicy=”” fish=”” rolls.=”” when=”” they=”” are=”” not=”” eating=”” they=”” are=”” arguing=”” about=”” eating=”” or=”” talking=”” about=”” past=”” meals.=”” it;=”” sounded=”” very=””>

Kewpie's Kitchen was the real deal, like sitting in the front room of a traditional Bengali home. We chose a thali, a selection of dishes served together on a silver tray, and while we waited we jipped on an aampora s...o...b..t made from mangoes, black salt and c.u.min seeds to give the sour-sweet taste Bengalis love.

When the meal came, I used the fresh puri to help the varying plates of vegetarian dishes from plate to lips. Lao, a marrow-like gourd, was slow-cooked simply with nigella seeds and melted creamily in the mouth. Bowls of shukta, a mixture of hard and soft vegetables, were again cooked with the Bengali version of five spice: panch phoron, a mixture of fennel seeds, black mustard seed, fenugreek seed, c.u.min seeds and nigella seeds. There was aubergine dipped in chickpea flour and deep-fried until crispy and little b.a.l.l.s of steamed aubergine in a sauce made with doi, Bengali yoghurt. Best of all there was LSD, Life Saving Dahl - the Bengali equivalent of Jewish chicken soup, made with red lentils and, compared with many versions of this Indian staple, very thin.

When my father returned to India for a short while in the late 1950S, he took with him his young Welsh bride. The family were wary of a marriage outside the caste but took to my mother primarily because she developed an immediate and deep pa.s.sion for Bengali food which allowed them to rationalize that 'she must be a reincarnated Brahmin'. As I watched Vanessa scoop up her lunch with perfect hand technique, I could not help thinking my family would have approved.

When it comes to sweets, the pa.s.sion of the Bengali goes beyond obsession and becomes almost feral. Never, ever try and come between a Bengali and their rightful ration of sweets. These can be challenging to the uninitiated, however, and the textures of these delicacies, made mainly from milk, can be unpleasant on the tongue. The amount of sugar in them probably explains why the levels of diabetes in Kolkata are higher than those anywhere else in the country.

But Bengali sweets are incredibly addictive, and those at Kolkata inst.i.tution K.C. Das are produced to a quality that yc will struggle to find anywhere else. Pre-eminent in the panthe of sweets is mishti doi, a simple combination of yoghurt cream. (It may be simple, but it is mother's milk to most Benga and grown men in the Indian diaspora will become teary-eyed; the very mention of it.) It can come in many flavours but is 1 plain and eaten from a small, unfired earthenware bowl, whic can be discarded after it has been wiped clean, of course.

Alongside it are two more favourites: gulab jamun, popular j over India and made of milk solids mixed with cream and the served in a rosewater-flavoured syrup, and my mother's own ] sonal favourite, rasguUa, made from cheese rolled with semolir and then poached in syrup. They originated in the neighbou ing state of Orissa but were brought to Bengal by Brahmir employed as cooks by wealthy families such as my father's. K.C Das was one of the first places to sell them commercially, even now, some 130 years after it first opened, they remain popular as ever.

We would be heading back to Kolkata for a few days at end of our time in India, and I hoped then to have chance connect with some of my father's family. But after a long, wear ing day it was time to head back to the guesthouse and pack ou bags for the journey up to Darjeeling and the Goomtee estafi tea gardens.

33.

The Darjeehng Express Darjeeling produces the finest black teas in the world and has done so since the British first experimented with the growing of bushes there in the middle of the nineteenth century. Now there are more than eighty different gardens helping slake the world's thirst for this most refres.h.i.+ng of brews.

I am a self-confessed tea nut. I drink several cups a day, from the first one, to help prise my eyes open in the morning, to the mid-afternoon cup with a digestive biscuit to my post-supper quencher. I can't do coffee. It will empty my stomach quicker than a p.o.r.no film starring Andrew Lloyd Webber. It has to be tea. However, like many Brits, my knowledge of tea was limited to the strong, dark brews beloved of construction workers all over the country. Give me a large mug, preferably with a humorous motto on the side, filled with a threateningly dark brown hquid, and I am as happy as Larry.

It was nearly four hours to our destination from the nearest airport, Bhagdogra, which meant a long and perilous drive from the plains up towards the mountains before we reached our accommodation. There was rubble on the roads, we were told, caused by recent riots in favour of the separation of the region from West Bengal to become its own state of Ghorkaland. On every spare wall, graffiti had been daubed supporting their claims: 'Ghorkaland Is Our Demand.'

By the time we pulled into the Goomtee estate and settled into the guesthouse it was already dark, and because the air was rnuch thinner at the alt.i.tude of 4,000 feet, it was cold enough to catch US out and have us running to put on sweaters jackets.

Goomtee comes from the Nepalese word for 'turning poit and the garden, set in a fork in the road, has been owned by i same family since the 1950s, when it was bought from the Britis by Mahbir Prasad. Its reputation for producing some of the fir teas in Darjeeling made it the perfect place to watch the proce of production from picking to packing.

Our stay at the guesthouse included all our meals and, course, innumerable cups of tea made from the leaves harvest in the gardens. As we sat down to enjoy our first pot, served iij the British way, with milk and a tray of biscuits, Vanessa becar slightly alarmed when I took the tea cosy from the pot and place it over my head. I don't see it as particularly peculiar behaviou Most men have done it. I have always done it: it seems a perfect sensible way to recycle the luxurious warmth from the pot J do, however, sometimes forget to take it off and on more one occasion have opened the door to my apartment and treate the postman to the sight of me wearing a tea cosy shaped like i kitten.

In the Goomtee Guesthouse there was a permanent staff* five people, all of whom, given that we were the only guesti were dedicated to our care. If we wanted tea, we asked for te If wanted a snack, we only had to ask. After our hikes arou the gardens and the factory, there was precious little else left

do but read, eat and sleep - a welcome relief after the last hectic couple of months. The cook at Goomtee had a great reputation and the food he prepared for us was simple but memorable, used few ingredients to stunning effect to produce dishes all parts of India, Nepal and Tibet, close neighbours to this; of India.

Breakfasts were small steamed rice cakes called idli, ser with a fiery sambar. Lunch, the biggest meal of the day, be Tibetan steamed dumplings called momo, served with salads, Bengali dahl, rice of course, and vegetables deep-friedj INDIA: DARJEELING.

chickpea flour batter. Best of all, for supper the staff” would bring out plates laden down with s.h.i.+ngra, the Bengali samosa stuff”ed with spicy cauliflower. Food was brought in a never-ending succession to the table until we held our hands up in submission and went to walk it off”in the manicured grounds or flop on the sofa with a book.

Fortunately, we also got lots of exercise. Vanessa had timed our trip to coincide with the first harvest of the first flush from the Goomtee estate, and very early the morning after our arrival we were summoned into the impressive and slightly frightening presence of the estate manager, Mahesh Mahars.h.i.+, who had run the garden with an iron fist for over thirty-five years.

'You see', he began, as we cowered slightly in our chairs on the other side of the desk. Every sentence that came from his mouth began with this booming introduction.

'You see. I have instructed the section supervisors that we should begin harvesting today. But', he warned, 'it is looking like rain and we may have to cancel until tomorrow.'